Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “The deceased is probably in a body bag. Let’s swap it out.”

  “What if it ain’t? I’ve seen ‘em arrive in body bags without a coffin, in coffins with and without body bags. Hell, I had one come off a Jamaican flight that was just wrapped in clear plastic.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  “I kid you not.”

  There were “oohs”, and “aahs”, and the ever handy, “bullshit.”

  Apparently, there was a crowd of workers standing around waiting for a decision. It was hot. Stifling. Daniel felt sweat trickle down his face and roll to his neck where he imagined a steady stream of water dripping through the slats of the coffin to splash upon the concrete. Any minute he would be discovered. Alarms would be sounded. Someone would shout, “Stow away!” and he would be yanked from his hiding place. But, like the cavalry, Phil Roberts came to the rescue. After introductions, and his promise to take full responsibility, the decision was made to ship the casket without the HRC.

  “All right, it’s his ass, not mine. Hook this cart to the tail of six-twenty and get a move on!” That was all the encouragement the wannabe Indy driver needed. Daniel was at the tail end of a train that snaked through traffic and around and behind aircraft that were taxiing to and from their gates on the busy ramp.

  As a child, Daniel loved to play crack the whip and always wanted to be farthest from the leader in the chain of human hands. Now, as the whip cracked, Daniel rolled this way and that and felt the box slide across the steel flooring of the cart. Images of sailing off the cart, and skidding to a stop, or of hitting the ground and splintering, flooded his mind. The Dallas Morning News and the Fort Worth Star Telegram headlines would read, “Corpse Misses Flight. Lives to Tell the Tale.” The trailer leapt in response to a depression in the concrete and Daniel caromed off the lid and side just before the wagon train slid to a halt.

  “Thank God, that’s over,” Daniel swore. He was no longer centered in the casket; his head was close to one side and through the small cracks he could discern movement not visible before. Once again, Daniel was aware of the stifling heat. Either it was cooler when in motion, and air did flow through the cracks, or the movement distracted him. Then too, it might be that he was too scared to notice his discomfort. Whatever, it all came flooding back, and all his attention, all his thoughts were concentrated on his discomfort. He wanted to scream, Get me out of here!

  Daniel slowly and noiselessly maneuvered his right hand to his face and brushed the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, forcing himself to concentrate on the crack nearest his face and to the voices outside. It was silent until he heard Phil’s voice.

  “If you hear me, Daniel, knock twice.” Daniel did. “They’re lifting and rolling the last containers in now. You’ll be next. As planned, it’s a DC-10-10 and you’ll be in forward cargo. Loose bags have been loaded in bulk cargo from the left rear and the armored truck we hoped to see is loading into aft cargo on the right side as expected. If Harold’s yellow bags are in a container, we’re screwed, but chances are they’re in bulk cargo stored in nets. Knock once if you copy. Company is coming.”

  One “knock” followed, as a strident voice ripped the air.

  “Where the hell is the HRC for this?” A second man answered, “Won’t fit. It’s pre-approved as is.”

  “Sez who?”

  “Sez that guy.”

  Phil spoke up. “I’m Phil Roberts, Receiving Manager, this odd sized casket came in on a priority and because to the untrained eye this could just as easily be a crate of oranges as a coffin, the decision was made to ship it rather than fight a lawsuit.”

  “Well, it ain’t no skin off my nose. Okay, help me pull this trailer to the container lift. We’ll use the lift and we won’t have to screw with a conveyor belt. Let’s go. Departure was delayed fifteen minutes because of a cancellation, so Maintenance will take the delay if we load inside that window. So, let’s get this old boy bedded down, A-Sap.”

  The cart rolled a short distance and smoothly stopped. Daniel heard, “Head first. You two grab that end. One, two, three.”

  In a few seconds, and surprisingly gently, Daniel was lifted and placed on the lift. Three minutes later he was stored in forward cargo and secured with tie downs. The cargo door was closed and locked and the lift was lowered and driven away. Phil stood off to the side watching the flurry of activity that precedes a departure and was approached by the crew chief in charge of the loading of Flight 620.

  “That was a close one. I don’t want my crew blamed for a delay and thankfully I didn’t have to buy that one. Usually I don’t have a cheering section, so what do you need?”

  “Oh, nothing much. An education maybe.” Phil said as he extended a hand in friendship. “As I said earlier, I’m Phil Roberts from Receiving.”

  “Bill Ball, from right here. If you came to learn more about the other end of the business, you came to the right place. Did you come to watch or work?”

  Phil laughed good-naturedly. “Definitely, to watch.”

  “Well then, your timing is off. We’ve been at this for almost forty minutes and there’s not much more to watch. We’re buttoning it up now.”

  It was at that moment, a second Federal Armored Express truck pulled up to the rear of the aircraft along with a blue sedan, an unmarked car, with a portable, magnetic, yellow light stuck to the roof above the driver.

  “Now what?” Bill grumbled. “Follow me, Phil. Let’s check this out. I think he’s lost.”

  As Bill and Phil approached the blue sedan, a man in a dark suit and tie slipped out of the passenger seat and spoke to the driver through his lowered window. The driver replied and drove off. The “suit” watched the car pull away, and he might have signaled the truck or perhaps it was coincidence, but an armed guard chose that moment to dismount from the passenger side and walk to the rear of the truck. He tapped the door and stepped backward to stand watchfully with a clear view of any approaching traffic. Two additional guards emerged from the vault. The first moved ten paces to the left rear while the other remained at the doorway. The “suit” watched Bill and Phil approach and stepped forward to intercept them, flashing a badge as he did so. This was not an ordinary courier.

  “Mick Roth, Secret Service,” the man announced by way of introduction.

  “I’m Ball, this is Roberts. I didn’t know you were coming. Another five minutes and you’d be loading by yourself. This delay is cutting into my crew’s break time.”

  Agent Roth, puckered his lips, a habit apparently employed as he considered a response. When he spoke, his words were cool and unemotional, not at all confrontational, but loaded with unspoken meaning. “Well, I’m glad we arrived when we did,” was what he said, but his body language and even tone sent a different message, and Bill responded without discussion or complaint. He jogged back toward his waiting crew and seconds later they responded.

  Agent Roth reminded Phil of Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western, the difference being the business suit. Mick Roth was a man of few words who exuded confidence and power. When Bill returned, his Motorola radio crackled to life. It was the Load Room announcing the imminent arrival of a second high value shipment from cancelled Flight 2145, scheduled to depart for San Francisco an hour ago. The call was answered with a simple “10-4” but to Phil and Mick Roth, Bill said, “That’s our early warning network. The Pentagon better have a better system than we do, or we’re up the creek without a paddle.” He laughed.

  The mirthless agent nodded.

  The conveyor-belt vehicle returned and was driven quickly into position below the bulk cargo door; the belt was elevated and positioned in contact with the fuselage. Meanwhile, a previously unseen guard using a hand-truck rolled a crate from the shadows of the truck’s interior to its gaping doorway. Jumping to the ground, he and the guard previously station
ed there, lifted the crate from the truck and lowered it to the ramp. Baggage handlers from Bill’s crew waited for a signal to act and stepped forward when it was received. One handler, with the agility of a circus performer, scrambled up the motionless belt to open the bulk-cargo door. He stepped inside as the belt began rolling upward carrying the crate and another handler whose job was to steady it during its assent and who then assisted in its unloading.

  The scene fascinated Phil. The Secret Service Agent seemed to watch everybody and everything except the crate and the men loading it. The flanking guards ignored the loading process too. They concentrated on passing vehicles in the symphony of motion that coursed by on the busy ramp. During the loading, Phil made several attempts at small talk with Agent Roth. He was ignored or received a curt, “just a minute” in reply.

  Bill had heard many of the joking comments used by his baggage handlers dealing with these high value shipments, and he assumed the Agent and guards would surely have heard them all. Comments like, “Do you have samples?” or “With so many of these boxes you won’t mind leaving one behind will you?” were stale and no longer evoked a reaction, much less a chuckle. So Bill avoided being cute, but he made one comment the Agent had apparently not heard before. He said, “It seems to me that two boxes could hold all the bills that crate holds and it’d be a hell of a lot easier to carry.”

  The Agent knew this was an honest statement. He replied, “No, not more than a million or two, but with what’s in that crate you could print a whole lot more than that.”

  The bulk cargo door was secured, and the two handlers rode the belt to the ground. The belt was lowered and the conveyor was driven away. The guards returned to their truck and parked within sight of the cargo hold but at a discrete distance. Roth waved toward the armored vehicle and strode toward the jet bridge stairs. Passing Bill and Phil he said, “Nice meeting you fellows,” but he never broke stride and never waited for a response. Flight 620 was ready for departure.

  16

  Cancellation Changes Everything

  Four men stood inside the boarding area at Gate 8 watching activity on the ramp outside. It was maddening. No one in authority seemed capable of making a decision. Was the flight cancelled or not? Why must passengers be the last to know? By all appearances the plane was out of service. Why else would ground crews be removing baggage from the cargo compartments? Helplessly, they stood near the glass and waited for information. Other passengers berated the hapless agent. When an armored car arrived and retrieved a crate that seemed of special interest to them, they turned away from the window and elbowed their way toward the agent for answers.

  Almost as if on cue, the agent picked that moment to make a windy announcement about the cancellation of Flight 2145. Passengers moaned. The agent was apologetic but delighted to have good news. She brightly announced that no one should worry, that all passengers would be accommodated on Flight 620. That flight was preparing for departure at Gate 28, and, yes, all checked baggage would be transferred too. The irritated but immensely relieved travelers moved as a herd toward gate 28. It was a long walk. The four athletic men quickly outpaced the pack but they arrived after Secret Service Agent Mick Roth had climbed the exterior stairs and boarded Flight 620. Too bad. But they did see what they had to see, an armored car parked a short distance away. The transfer had been made. The engraving plates from the Bureau of Printing and Engraving were on board. It was bad luck that the DC-9 had cancelled, but fortuitous that the mission was not. The DC-10 was not heavily booked and Global had been able to accommodate everyone and everything.

  The news of the cancellation of 2145 was not well received by the disgruntled baggage crew. They had just spent a half hour loading the aircraft on hands and knees and now must undo their work in a hurry and transfer the cargo contents of Flight 2145 to 620. Catering too had to undo its work.

  A horn blared in warning as the catering truck backed into position at the door to the forward galley. The bed of the truck scissored upward hydraulically to match the door height of a DC-9, and a connector bridge with rubber bumper was extended to the base of the door. A caterer crossed the bridge and peered through the porthole before slapping the exterior of the door with an open hand. It was his warning to anyone inside that he was about to open the door. It would be a nasty surprise indeed, if the Flight Attendants had deplaned without disarming the slide. The caterer could not see whether or not the slide’s retaining bar was hooked into the floor, but by opening the door, he would soon find out. The escape slide would be yanked from its compartment attached to the door, and a lanyard would be pulled that would trigger the explosive expansion and expulsion of the slide right into the catering truck as it unfurled like a giant balloon. Thankfully, the flight attendants had done their job.

  The carts from the forward galley were quickly loaded onto the truck. The bridge was retracted and the bed lowered before the truck drove away. One caterer stayed behind. He would walk down the aisle to the aft galley and open the door as the truck maneuvered to repeat the procedure at the rear of the airplane. First, however, he made a quick trip to the lavatories to retrieve what he had planted there.

  Flight 620 had received word to delay its departure, to hold for passengers and cargo from a cancelled flight. Exhausted and sweating, angry but relieved souls were hoofing their way to Gate 28. Cargo and catering were still being transferred as the last weary stragglers boarded and sank into their newly assigned seats.

  Below deck, the last words Daniel heard were “Break time.” And those words were followed by a whining sound, a resounding thump, and total darkness. Daniel needed no radio call from Harold to know the Cargo door had been closed. He slid the switch of his flashlight to “On” and the Energizer Bunny did its thing. Fumbling with the latches, eager to escape his claustrophobic hideout, Daniel said, “Fingers don’t fail me now!” He loosed the retainers and the lid dropped down into its slide allowing Daniel to push it rearward. With considerable effort he managed to raise his head above the coffin to breathe the cool, refreshing air. Hands on the rim, he pulled and then pushed himself upward until he could get his feet beneath him. Unsteadily he arose and stepped out onto the metal floor.

  Beacon in hand, Daniel quickly spotted the light switch alongside the door and flicked it upward. The overhead bulbs flared, flooding the compartment with light. The cargo hold was much larger than he imagined it would be. It meant that his trips to the rear would take longer than expected if the other compartments were as large as this.

  Polished aluminum freight containers like small rail cars were pushed together and fastened tightly to tracks on the floor. They loomed within the room, casting eerie shadows across the surrounding, narrow spaces. Daniel was making his way to the rear bulkhead when he heard Harold’s voice.

  “The door is closed and he shall rise from the dead. Do you copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Lazarus has risen. Out.”

  The access panel was obvious on the otherwise solid wall and loosening the Dzus fasteners that held it in place was quick work. Unlike screws that when removed are likely to be dropped and lost, these turn-to-lock fasteners, with a stud and ejector spring, released but remained attached.

  The adjoining space, Daniel knew, was the lower galley. It was lit, but a cart with locked wheels blocked his passage and refused to budge when pushed. A frantic search for a tool, a wedge, or lever, began. The cargo hold was pristine. There were no two by fours or metal poles lying about. Leaning against the casket, Daniel made a radio call. “Phil, Daniel, over.”

  Phil excused himself from Bill Ball and replied, “I read. Go ahead.”

  Daniel explained his dilemma.

  “Try using the oxygen cylinder as a lever. Will it fit?”

  “It might, but won’t it rupture?”

  “Negative. Just protect the business end.”

  “Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’ll give it a shot. Ou
t.”

  Using the tank as a crowbar, Daniel was able to gradually push the carts far enough apart to wedge his upper body between them. His right shoulder pointed skyward as his left arm rested on the floor. Taking a deep breath, Daniel rolled to his right, forcing his right shoulder down. The carts resisted, and then skidded sideways allowing him to crawl through. From his new vantage point he could see why the carts couldn’t be budged. Large metal retainers, like walrus tusks, were attached to the storage unit and rotated downward in front of the carts to prevent them from rolling out of the storage space into the room. The walrus tusks had to be rotated to the horizontal before the cart could be moved, something even a contortionist could not do from behind the cart. He had been able to slide them apart, only because the storage space did not contain a full complement of carts. He keyed his radio switch.

  “Our luck is holding, moving aft.”

  Phil and Harold monitored the call but did not respond. Daniel located the hatch on the opposite wall, and cleared a path to it. He shifted carts left and right, and with his Phillips screwdriver removed the walrus tusks from the critical storage points. He pocketed the tusks and their screws before crawling through to mid-cargo. At least now he would be able to return, even if a cart was parked there.

  “Welcome to mid-cargo,” Daniel said softly to no one in particular. “Where is your light switch?” Using his portable light, he easily answered his own question, and flicked on the overhead lights. Unlike the previous two hatchways, the third had stiff springs that held the panel tightly against a heavy rubber gasket. Daniel pried it open and used the oxygen cylinder to hold it in that position. Crawling through, holding a mini Maglite in his teeth, Daniel thought, “Now, it gets interesting.” The pencil beam pierced the darkness of the mechanical space and cast eerie shadows over cables, tubes and wires as the luminous path moved in synch with his head. It was reminiscent of a Halloween fun-house, and Daniel almost expected a ghoul to jump up from behind an air duct to yell, “Boo.” Bent low at the waist, Daniel shuffled cautiously rearward, ducking beneath and around obstructions as he moved.